Ambition
by The Brilliant Fool
Summary: Hermione Granger, cleverist and most ambitious witch in Hogwarts, is Sorted into Slytherin. Will she live up to Slytherin's reputation, and is it true that we Sort too early? Challenge, told in vignettes.
1. Chapter 1

For Your Worshipfulness

* * *

Hermione Granger hadn't been at the Slytherin table for more than ten minutes before she knew, definitively, that she would never have any friends at Hogwarts. Seated as she was next to Pansy Parkinson, who had given her a nasty look when she sat down and who somehow managed to spill pumpkin juice all over Hermione's robes to the delight of the boys seated around them, it didn't take much imagination to understand that she was unwanted.

And not just at the Slytherin table. Watching the Sorting, it had seemed to her that every single person Sorted into Slytherin had been given a particularly cold treatment by the other tables. Even Neville Longbottom, the boy whose lost toad she had personally helped search for for the last two hours, had stared down at the ground and mumbled something largely unintelligible and yet perfectly understandable. She was unwelcome.

As one of the older boys down the table mimicked her, bucking his front teeth and gesturing around his head to indicate the hair that, no matter how it was cut, refused to lie flatter against her head, Hermione felt a pang of homesickness so great she almost hunched over with the pain of it. What would her parents say, she wondered, when she told them she had been magically Sorted into a House full of children the rest of the world seemed to hate? And what did that say about her? Was she, too, going to turn out like Pansy, who was at this moment carving something vulgar into the table with her fork, throwing hopeful glances at the blond boy seated across from her? That was the boy who had talked to Harry Potter before the Sorting. Draco Malfoy. He was the youngest in a long line of Pureblood Wizarding families. Hermione knew. She'd looked it up before school had started.

In fact, looking around her, and she was craning her neck to do so, trying desperately not to care about the snickering and the mimickery from Malfoy's beefy friends, she couldn't see anyone in her year who was less than halfblood. Her research had been intense, and she had a very good memory for information. It seemed she was the only Muggleborn in Slytherin for her year. Hermione wondered if she was the only Muggleborn in all of Slytherin. It certainly seemed possible, judging by what she knew of Slytherin. Which was rather a lot, if she did say so herself. Probably more than the others at the table. She wrapped that knowledge around herself, telling herself that she was content to be cleverer than the others. One didn't become Minister of Magic without being clever, did one? Cornelius Fudge must be very clever, or he would never have been put in power. That was comforting. Out of all the children here, she imagined she was the most likely to succeed. It helped the pain a little bit. But just a little bit.

From her spot at the Slytherin table, she could see Harry Potter and the red-haired Ron Weasley where they sat enjoying the dinner she had largely ignored. He had courage, she had to admit, to stand up to Malfoy. To speak up at all, really, when everyone was looking at him.

And everyone _was_ looking at him, all along the tables, and all across the halls, children were craning their necks to see him, just as she had done. He didn't seem cocky or self-assured like Malfoy. He didn't seem brilliant like her. During the few minutes that they had talked, he had seemed largely like any normal boy their age, albeit with exceptionally large clothes for his size. His gratitude when she'd fixed his glasses had been real. What was he like? And did he deserve all this attention?

She learned quickly, as she always did.

Lesson One: do not answer a question until waiting to see if anyone else knows it. The bruises on her arms from being pinched by girls sitting next to her were livid, though invisible under the robes. The answers stuck in her throat. She swallowed around them.

Lesson Two: the word "Mudblood" is only a word. Words only gain meaning through the hearer, never the speaker. Sticks and stones, sticks and stones. Sticks and stones.

Lesson Three: Watch and listen.

She had her own plans. She didn't need friends to achieve them, at least not yet. When she was older and people could see around her house or her blood status, then she could have friends. It didn't matter now, anyway. She had homework. She could learn. That would be enough for now.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: So this isn't a full rewrite (That would be a HUGE undertaking, and if it ain't broke...). This is a series of vignettes based on the idea that Hermione is Sorted into Slytherin. This was a challenge given to me a little while ago, and I thought it was worth looking into. This will be different, because obviously Hermione would have to be different to be put into Slytherin, but it's based on Dumbledore's idea that we Sort too soon. Hopefully you guys will be able to recognize where we are from the jumps. This should equate one chapter to every book. I think.

* * *

The Enemy of the Heir

* * *

Harry Potter was sitting by himself, his head in his hands, poring over what looked like a picture book. It figured, Hermione thought angrily, that the famous hero who everyone said was destined to save the world was barely even literate. That went for his friends, too.

Hermione has been silent for so long that it surprised even her when she found herself sitting across the table from Harry Potter and clearing her throat loudly. He looked up, his green eyes obscured somewhat by his glasses, and stared blankly at her for a moment. When she remained silent, he raises his eyebrows slowly. "Errr…"

"I just thought you should know," she said, and even to herself her voice sounded snippy, "that I'm going to defeat Voldemort, not you, and that I'm going to become Minister of Magic, so you might as well give it a rest right now."

His frown of confusion was immediate. "Aren't you in Slytherin?"

"Yes."

"Won't you get chucked out for talking to me?"

Hermione shrugged, leaning back in her chair. "Nobody cares much what I do." In the silence that followed, she smoothed her hair back from her face, trying to tuck it behind her ears. She was surprised by how much her hands were shaking, and by the vicious beating of her heart. She looked up at him, at the confused, resentful look on his face and his messy hair and the bold scar on his forehead. They had Potions together, and had had it for two years, but Hermione's status as top student was largely different from Potter's when it came to Snape. And anyway, it wouldn't do to be seen to be curious about Harry Potter. Things were hard enough.

She narrowed her eyes, and looked straight into his. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Which bit? The bit no one caring about you, or the bit about being Minister?"

"The bit about defeating Voldemort."

"Er, yeah, I heard it, I just didn't think you meant it. Aren't you in Slytherin?"

"You've already said that."

"Well, yeah."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Well…doesn't that make you, you know, sort of on Voldemort's side?"

Hermione sat very still, listening to the sounds of her own breathing. Her hands had clenched into fists, so tight that her fingernails dug holes in her palms. Her voice, when she opened her mouth, was almost a hiss. "You don't understand anything. You _are_ stupid, just like they say."

She left him staring after her, the pictures of his parents waving up at him from beneath his fingers.

* * *

"_Mental_, that one, I'm telling you."

"_Shhh_. She could be around."

"I know, mate, but it's not like it's a secret, is it? I mean, even the Slytherins don't want anything to do with her."

"But she said she wants to defeat Voldemort."

"Well that's the perfect cover, isn't it?"

"Cover for what?"

"You know what? I think she could be it!"

"It, what?"

"The Heir!"

"Get serious."

"I am! What if it's all just a big trap to get you to trust her?"

"I don't know…"

"Yeah! And then the second we do she sets her monster on us, or something."

"Or something."

"Make fun if you want, but you should stay away from the Slytherins, Harry. I told you, there's not a—"

"Not a witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin, I know."

"Well, there you are, then."

"Wait. Did you hear that?"

"What?"

"That voice. It's coming from…"

"Harry! Wait!"

"You can't hear it? This way!"

"If we run into Filch, I'm going to kill you, Harry."

"It wants to kill, Ron, it says it wants to rip…"

"Come on, mate, this isn't funny."

"It's gone."

"Have you gone mental? What are you playing at?"

"I heard it, Ron, you have to believe me."

"All right, I _do _believe you. But if you heard it, why couldn't I?"

Hermione pressed herself against the wall, trying not to make any sound. She hadn't wanted to eavesdrop on their conversation, but she hadn't been able to help herself once Potter had started running off.

"I heard it before in Lockhart's office during detention."

"That's not really a good thing, mate."

"I know that, all right?"

"Harry—look."

Hermione peered around the corner and caught her breath. On the wall, written in deep red letters, were the words THE CHAMBER HAS BEEN OPENED

ENEMIES OF THE HEIR BEWARE

The writing had dripped down along the wall, like blood. Hermione gulped, sickened.

"Ron." Potter was pointing along the wall, to where something was hanging down, casting a long shadow across the floor. Hermione clapped her hands across her mouth; it was Mrs Norris. And where Mrs Norris was—

Everything happened quickly. Filch, then Snape appeared, followed by students and professors. Mrs Norris was clearly Petrified—Hermione had seen the symptoms in _Magical Maladies_—but it seemed excessive even for Filch to try and blame Potter and Weasley. As more students appeared, Hermione came out from her hiding place. Draco Malfoy caught her eye and pointed to the wall. "Enemies of the heir, beware—You're next, Mudblood!"

Ron Weasley whipped his head around and caught Hermione's eye, then looked over at Malfoy, who was smirking up at the wall. Hermione looked down at her shoes, which were standing in a puddle of water. _Water. What? _

"Shut up, Malfoy." Hermione looked up abruptly at Weasley, who was shooting Malfoy an intense look of dislike. He looked back at her warily, then nodded. It seemed that the last five minutes had been enough to convince him that she was not, in fact, the Heir of Slytherin. That was gratifying, at least.

* * *

Potter and Weasley made their way out of the Duelling room, so quickly that Hermione had to run to catch up with them.

"It's not a good thing, Harry—"

"What's the big deal? There must be loads of students who can speak Parseltongue!"

"Well, actually," Hermione said, surprised by the sound of her own voice, "there aren't." The two boys turned around, and Hermione could see the fear on both their faces, and the anger on Potter's.

"Oh, yeah? What do you know?" Weasley looked her up and down suspiciously.

"There are only a few known Parseltongues," Hermione said, looking at Potter with real pity. He wasn't going to take this well. "Salazar Slytherin was one. Voldemort was another."

The sheer hatred that crossed Potter's face was enough to close her mouth. She almost wished she hadn't told him, but she would have wanted to know. She would have wanted someone, anyone, to tell her.

* * *

Ginny Weasley wasn't looking well. Hermione wasn't the only one who had noticed; Ron Weasley was looking after her in the corridor with a distinct expression of concern.

"What do you think's wrong with her?" he asked Potter, who looked uncomfortable and shrugged.

Hermione looked after Ginny as well, at the shoulders hunched, at the books she clutched to her chest. There had been one book at the front, that black diary she took with her everywhere. She had been writing in it in the library one night as Hermione was doing a composition. She hadn't looked well then, either.

A group of Hufflepuffs walked past Weasley and Potter, and a couple of the more daring ones bumped into his shoulder, shooting him looks of dislike over their shoulders. Weasley yelled something vulgar after them, using large hand gestures to demonstrate what they could go and do to themselves.

"I'm telling you, Harry, one good hex and they'd stay away from you," he said as Potter collected his books from where they had been knocked onto the floor.

"I'm not hexing people, Ron, they already think I'm the Heir of Slytherin."

"I don't." Hermione found herself standing in front of them, her hands nervously clutching the strap of her rucksack.

"Didn't you know it's not polite to eavesdrop?" Weasley said, handing Potter his Potions book.

"I want you to know that I don't think you're the Heir of Slytherin, and anybody who does is an idiot." The two boys stared at her blankly for a moment. "And…that's all."

"Er, thank you."

Hermione shrugged. "I just don't think you're the sort of person who goes around threatening people and Petrifying. The Heir of Slytherin would have to be someone who believed all the things Salazar Slytherin believed. I don't think that's you, is it?"

The two were looking at her in a different way now, making Hermione very glad she had decided to speak to them.

"Brilliant," said Potter, who looked slightly less hangdog than he had before.

"The question is, if it isn't you, then who is it?" With nothing more to say, and with the boys simply staring at her, she shrugged uncomfortably and turned to go. "See you later, I guess."

"Wait! Granger, is it?" Weasley's voice stopped her before she could go any further.

"What?" She hadn't expected them to want to talk to her, too.

"What can you tell us about Draco Malfoy?"

* * *

Hermione wasted no time after she woke up in the Hospital Wing. Dumbledore's office was nearby, and she didn't care how late it was. She was going to see him.

A tall, very blond man with a long cane came striding out of the office before she could enter, followed by a small elf in a very dirty pillowcase. Hermione didn't see the elf until it was too late, and went barreling into him, sending him tumbling.

She reached out to catch him. "I'm so sorry," she said, lifting him up off the floor and doing her best to dust him off.

The elf sent a frightened glance at the man, murmuring, "Do not worry about it, Miss, Dobby is used to falling over, Miss, Dobby does it all the time."

"Dobby? Is that your name? I'm Hermione." And she held out her hand to the elf, who took one look at it and burst into tears.

"Dobby! Come!" The man said, sending a look of disgust at Hermione, at her robes, at her hair, then walking away. Dobby glanced at her before following behind the man who must be his master. As Hermione stood up and turned around, Harry Potter, covered in mud and what Hermione thought looked like blood, came running straight into her as well, carrying a book which Hermione recognized as Ginny Weasley's diary. He caught her before she bowled over.

"Sorry," he muttered, before moving past her. He hesitated, then turned back. "And thanks." He turned and disappeared.

The door to Dumbledore's office was still open and as she entered cautiously she saw Dumbledore was seated at his desk, one hand resting gently on his forehead while the other played with the hilt of a large sword covered in rubies.

She didn't know what to do, so she hesitated at the door. When finally she decided it was best to make herself known, the light tap that she gave to the doorway caused the Headmaster to jump in his seat. She hadn't thought it possible to sneak up on Dumbledore.

"Ah, Miss Granger," he said, and from the way he spoke one might think nothing out of the ordinary had happened that day. "And to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I wanted to talk to you Professor," she said, moving forward to stand in front of the desk.

"Professor, I was wondering…Is it possible—has it ever happened, I mean, that the Sorting Hat has been wrong? I've looked and looked, and I can't seem to find any instance of a House being changed, and I was just wondering…" she trailed off, cowed by the look of kind understanding on Dumbledore's face.

"Ah, I see. You are the second person to ask me that tonight, Miss Granger, so you see you are not alone."

"And what did you tell the first person?"

He paused just slightly, then fixed her with his blue gaze, the candlelight glinting off his glasses. "Might I inquire the reason for the question?"

"They say the Heir of Slytherin opened the Chamber of Secrets, sir."

"Yes, they do."

"And set a monster out into the school to kill Muggleborns, sir."

"Yes, he did."

"I'm a Muggleborn, sir. I'm the only Muggleborn in Slytherin. And I don't think I could ever loose a basilisk in the school to attack anyone, and if that's what a true Slytherin's supposed to do then I don't think I'm a true Slytherin. Sir."

"A basilisk. How, pray tell, did you know it was a basilisk?"

"I heard Harry Potter and Ron Weasley following a sound one night. A sound only Potter could hear, sir. And I remembered the dueling lesson. And then all the Petrifications— I put the pieces together."

"Thus the mirror." He was peering at her now with interest, his clear blue eyes piercing.

"Yes, sir."

"And you wrote it down on that paper. Did you intend for Mr Potter to find it?"

"No, sir. I mean, I didn't intend it specifically for him. I just thought, if anything happened to me…" she shrugged and trailed off.

"Ah, of course. You must forgive my astonishment, Miss Granger. You must be one among the brightest witches of your age. Very well done, indeed," he might have been encouraging any student after a hard lesson.

"He must have visited me in the hospital wing, mustn't he? Harry Potter, I mean."

"According to Madame Pomferey, both Mr Potter and Mr Weasley came to see you while you were Petrified."

Hermione found she had to swallow very forcefully. She looked away from Dumbledore, blinking until she trusted her eyes not to water. When she looked back at him, Dumbledore's expression nearly caused her to cry all over again; his eyes were full of sympathy.

"Miss Granger, you asked me a question, didn't you? Would you like me to answer it now?" She had never felt so small, so feeble, as when she nodded her head, her eyes fixed on his kindly face.

"Do you remember what the Sorting Hat said to you on your first night at Hogwarts?"

"It told us about the Houses."

"I am asking you what it said about Slytherin in particular."

Hermione knew it from memory. She couldn't help knowing it. ""_Or perhaps in Slytherin/You'll make your real friends/Those cunning folk use any means/To achieve their ends._' It means that Slytherin valued cleverness and ambition above other qualities."

"Precisely. Very well said, indeed," said Dumbledore so sincerely that Hermione found she was blushing. "Salazar Slytherin did indeed have favored qualities, as did the other founders of this school. Would you consider yourself to be clever, Miss Granger?" He looked at her shrewdly from over the top of this spectacles.

"Yes, I would."

"Good. So would I. And ambitious, no doubt?"

"I have things I want to do, yes. But I _am _a Muggle-born, sir. Slytherin hated Muggle-borns like me."

"It is to his great detriment that this is true, Miss Granger. And it is to the detriment of our entire society that this attitude continues today. No doubt by your very housemates, if the stories are to be believed." She looked down at his desk, at the sword that had blood on the blade. Anything was better than looking Dumbledore in the eye at this precise moment.

He continued. "There is no doubt that each House has different criteria. It is the purpose for which they were made. But tell me this—what are the characteristics of the other Houses?" At this, Hermione did look up at him. His fingers were interlocked, his hands resting in front of him on his desk, and he looked for all the world as though he were teaching a lesson. A bubble of resentment rose in her throat, and she had to look away from him again quickly before she voiced her thoughts.

" '_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,/If you've a ready mind/ Where those of wit and learning/Will always find their kin,.' _means that Ravenclaw values scholarship and intelligence. '_You might belong in Hufflepuff/Where they are just and loyal/Those patient Hufflepuffs are true/And unafraid of toil_' means Hufflepuffs are fair and honest and loyal to their friends. And the Gryffindors are supposed to have 'daring, nerve, and chivalry,' which set them apart."

"Well remembered, Miss Granger, very well remembered." She did not look up from his desk, not even to see if he was sincere. She thought he was. She could never tell. "But tell me, Miss Granger, do you think there are other Houses whose qualities you possess? Other places where you feel you could belong?"

Hermione stayed silent, focusing on the sword. Why was there blood splattered all over it? It must have something to do with Potter. There was a name written on it, but she couldn't see what it was from her position.

"Miss Granger, please look at me." His hand moved to cover the blade. She looked up at him, at the blue eyes which were again assessing her shrewdly.

"I'm clever," said Hermione, "and I care about school, which could make me a Ravenclaw."

"And the other things? Loyalty, for example, or chivalry?" For the first time, he sounded tired.

"I'm not sure, sir. I've never had the chance to find out, sir." The weight of two friendless years bore down on her, and instead of looking away from him, she dug her nails into her thumb, trusting on that to keep the tears at bay.

"Are you certain of that, Miss Granger? On walking into my office you bumped into an elf. What was his name?"

"Dobby, sir. But—"

"And how did you know his name was Dobby, Miss Granger?"

"I—I asked him, sir. As I was helping him up."

"You are exceptionally well-read for a witch of your age, Miss Granger. You must have read something of house-elves."

"Yes, sir."

"Why, then, did you not do as many other wizards would have done, and simply walked on? Or strike out at him?"

"It didn't seem right to, sir."

"Interesting, and why not?" This could have been a casual philosophical conversation over tea. The fact that it was past midnight seemed to bear no importance.

"Because I don't think it's fair that some people are treated worse than others because of the what they are or where they were born. I'm a Muggle-born, sir, and if I thought it was okay to do that , I'd be no better than Voldemort. Sir."

There was a moment, a brief moment, when Dumbledore's eyes gleamed behind his spectacles. He seemed astonished, or maybe triumphant. But it was probably just a trick of the light, because when he leaned his head forward slightly, his eyes appeared no more than politely curious. "You show loyalty to others, Miss Granger, in that you do not ignore their existence to benefit yourself. You show chivalry to them in their moments of need."

"I just helped someone up when I was the one who knocked them down, sir."

"Yes, indeed, Miss Granger. But then I've always thought that small things which can seem insignificant tend to have larger meanings than we can perhaps ever know."

"But sir," Hermione felt baffled, and small, and for the first time in her life, not at all clever, "all that's done is said that I _should_ be in other Houses."

"You haven't been paying attention, Miss Granger," and the chastisement was almost as shocking as if he had raised his voice. "You have other qualities which make you who you are. Are there members of your own House from whom you see very little of Salazar Slytherin's exhibited traits? I believe you may be able to think of some."

Crabbe. Goyle. Pansy. None of them were clever, or cunning. Or ambitious.

"Yes, sir."

"They have some qualities which put them in only one House, but those qualities are what I would consider to be the basest of Salazar Slytherin's legacy. Pure blood, and a hatred of Muggles and Muggle-borns, is nothing but a mania, Miss Granger, dangerous as it is. The House is not made up of purebloods, which even a cursory peek into the references in the library will show you. As I'm sure you've discovered."

"Yes, sir."

"That is to say that there are Slytherins who do not, shall we say, fit the mould Salazar Slytherin wanted to create. That is because the Sorting Hat does not have the same prejudices that Salazar Slytherin had. It is, after all, just a hat, though it is a very old and venerated hat, to be sure."

"So that Hat could see beyond my Muggle-born status to what really makes me a Slytherin, sir?"

"That would be a very succinct way of putting it, Miss Granger."

"And what is it that really makes me a Slytherin, sir?" This, in the end, was what she had come here to find out. This was the question she had been asking herself for the last two years, had wanted to learn the answer to more than anything.

But Dumbledore simply spread his hands. Hermione focused on the name. Godric Gryffindor. It was the sword of Gryffindor. "That, I'm afraid, is not for me to tell you."

"But—"

"It is, like many things," Dumbledore said more loudly, cutting her off, "for you to find out. You are clever, Miss Granger, and as we have said before you have goals and aspirations you wish to accomplish. Slytherin has a very bad reputation amongst many wizards, but there have been great wizards to come from Slytherin before, and the majority of them have had nothing to do with Dark Magic. Likewise, there have been students in other Houses who in the end failed to display those qualities that were perceived in them when they were eleven. The reality, Miss Granger, is that the Sorting happens when students are very young, and it in no way predicts how a person is going to grow up, or the education that he or she receives, both from Hogwarts and outside. You possess every quality from every House, Miss Granger, which means you could have been Sorted into any House, but you were sorted into Slytherin. It does not make you a bad person, or a traitor to Muggles and Muggle-borns, or a future servant of Voldemort. It simply means that when you arrived here you had some ideals that were more dominant than others. The Sorting is not a perfect process, I am afraid, and the importance wizards place in it is a highly misguided and myopic practice. I would change it if I could, Miss Granger, but I fear that there are some feats that even I am incapable of accomplishing."

The sword behind his head gleamed in the candlelight. In the silence after his last words fell, the phoenix in the cage beside his desk cooed and preened his feathers, which seemed a little blackened for some reason. He had just reincarnated. Hermione recognized his stage of life from a book she'd read. Dumbledore's expression was so kindly that Hermione knew that if she stayed in that spot she would burst into tears. Disappointment was overwhelming her, though she had known the question in and of itself had been a long shot. _Hogwarts, A History _had clearly stated that it was against the binding bylaws of the school for students to changes Houses. It had been a failed expedition from the start.

Even so, she couldn't help what came next. "They hate me, sir." It was little more than a whisper, and once she had said it, she sincerely wished she kept her mouth shut.

"That, Miss Granger, is their loss, and a rather grave one at that, I shouldn't wonder. I think you have the makings of a truly loyal friend. Of course," he went on, his voice slightly less serious, "I've never thought that friendships should be based solely on Houses. It has not stopped students in the past."

Back in her room, listening to Pansy snore and Millicent Bullstrode mutter in her sleep, Hermione had two things on her mind: the first was that diary. The second was trying to be friends with Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley.


End file.
